The Bookworm
by LenkaJeneva
Summary: Harry's a bookworm. Not like Hermione though. He doesn't read to learn, history doesn't fascinate him, reasoning and rules don't draw him to books. It's the stories. The fictional characters, and the mysteries... It's his own way to leave Private Drive.
1. Chapter 1

**The Bookworm**

**This is a story where Harry is, as the title implies, a bookworm. Not like Hermione though, he doesn't read to learn, history doesn't fascinate him, reasoning and rules don't draw him to books. It's the stories. All the Fictional stories that he reads, how the characters interact, how you always have to expect the unexpected, the mysteries – everything, is what draws him to his books.**

**And he is oddly upset with the Wizarding World's selection of books. Not for the normal reasons, but because he can't understand them that well. The muggle books are what he grew up with, that and muggle rationality, reading something from a wizards view at age eleven is like trying to read Shakespeare to Harry. Creatures like the Hippogriff are not common animals in the muggle world, like the cat, for example.**

**Simply put, Harry cannot relate to these books. But you'll learn more about that later.**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter

* * *

Harry glanced up as the light flickered above him.

It wasn't unusual, on the contrary, it was nearly expected that anything in this room act wonky at certain times during its life.

And, as such, Harry dutifully ignored it as he returned to the book that was settled comfortably in his lap.

The book was old, it's pages wrinkled and tanned, and the once bright red cover dimmed to a dark maroon, the golden threads connecting the pages had been scratched off, or perhaps it had merely been age protesting against the book, pulling it apart at the seems.

But Harry didn't care. He was content to sit in the corner of his cupboard, the cot poking into his bottom, the stairs creaking ominously above him… and the light above him flickering.

He shoved his nose further into the book. He'd have to get better glasses, preferably soon.

Harry knew that his Aunt and Uncle wouldn't agree with that, wouldn't even think about it. He'd get a smack to the head and an order to take the garbage out at most. Definitely not the glasses.

He sighed as the words swam in front of him.

Sitting up late into the night, reading _Around the World in 80 Days_, was certainly not his best idea. But he couldn't bring himself to put it down.

He knew that he'd soon be woken up by his Aunt screeching at him, soon be preparing his cousins birthday breakfast, but he'd sooner just stay up, watching the words swim in front of him as he fell into his books, dreamed about his stories, thought about the man, Mr. Fogg, as he and Mr. Passépartout traveled the world, merely a bet, determined to prove the world wrong – and that it is impossible to travel the world in 80 days.

Harry found himself day-dreaming about Hong Kong, New York, Bombay, Calcutta…

He wished that he could see these places… if only once…

With a sigh, he set the book down underneath his pillow as the old grandfather clock chimed one in the morning. He pulled the chain hanging just above his face, and turned off onto his side. The chain tickled his ear.

In just six hours he'd be woken up by his (in ornately) early riser of an Aunt to make breakfast.

For, Harry decided to ignore all that. He decided to ignore his cousin's birthday early this morning, to ignore the unspoken rule of "no imagination", ignore the stupidity of his relatives…

He fell asleep. Only to dream a dream of an insane young British-man (himself it seemed) traveling the world, just like in his book, in only 80 days. No Aunt Petunia, no Uncle Vernon, no Dudley.

Just him.

And that side-kick that seemed to want to follow him around.

Ah well, there were worse things than the French. No matter what his Uncle Vernon had to say (in fact, if asked, Harry would have said that he believed that everything that came out of his Uncles mouth was a lie, so anything bad said about the French, Harry would automatically assume that the French were actually good people who were misunderstood).

* * *

Harry cautiously looked up the stairs. He could hear Piers and Dudley laughing (from Dudley's room, where – Harry hoped – they'd stay for at least a couple more hours).

The black-haired boy crept out the door, careful not to draw his Aunts attention. As long as he managed to make it outside unnoticed, he'd retrieve no chores. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes – and in this case, Harry could take it quite literally.

But his Aunt was in the kitchen, making lunchtime snacks for the two boys upstairs, not paying a lick of attention to her nephew quietly shutting the door.

Who cared when and how he left the house? As long as he left, that was fine enough for the Dursley's.

Harry never took this into account. These few hours that he'd manage to squeeze out of nature would be swell – as long as his cousin stayed inside. Harry didn't want to have to deal with "Harry Hunting" now that he was finally allowed outside.

He still couldn't get over the fact that he had talked to a snake.

It seemed as though it was right out of the story books, the _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ come to life.

It all seemed worth it in the end.

And he had to wonder if that snake ever did manage to make it to Brazil…

Eh, something to contemplate while he wasn't attempting to impersonate James Bond while sneaking out of his relatives house.

He'd managed to finish _Around the World in 80 Days_ without a hitch, although being locked in his room (or cupboard) for weeks on end could help accomplish that fact.

Harry had now started _Tea with the Black Dragon_ once he'd swapped books at the library (thanking God that _Around the World in 80 Days _hadn't been overdue. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would throw a fit if they realized that he was reading fantasy books – books that "weren't real and could never happen" as his aunt always said - imagine that in a higher tone of voice and incredibly shrill, and, congrats, you've listened to his Aunt Petunia).

But, and Harry was eternally grateful for this, he did not have to listen to Aunt Petunia at the moment. Those few hours (far and in between) were a blessing to him. Especially now since he had the small, thin, orange book stuffed safely in his pants pockets.

No one would look for them in there. Not now, since Harry started doing the wash for his Aunt as one of his weekly chores.

Weaving past a few teenagers walking down the sidewalk (one of the girls cooed at him and winked), Harry slowly made his way to the park.

There was a certain tree that he _always_ had to sit at.

Or on. Either way.

The park was old, Harry mused thoughtfully as he approached it, and nobody went there anymore. And when he said nobody, he meant _nobody_… The only other person that he'd seen frequenting the park was one of the teenagers and his friends; and they were happy to just ignore that Harry ever even stepped foot near them.

It made for a nice, secluded place where Harry could hide, quite easily.

He meandered off the path, skipping down the short, stubby hill, and jumped down onto the solid ground, before looking skywards and continuing on his way.

His footsteps faltered.

Confused, Harry felt his brow furrow. There was another owl flying overhead….

Harry pursed his lips before moving forwards. No. He mustn't convince himself that owls were forming a small army to fight against humanity. That was just getting _way_ too into Sci-Fi. There was a reason that he attempted to measure his alien intake every month.

If he managed to start it up again, he'd probably have nightmares about his Uncle turning into a hippo and eating him in his sleep.

For nearly three years Harry was afraid to look his Uncle in the face without screaming.

It confused his Aunt and Uncle to no end and Dudley took a sick pleasure in exploiting that certain fear as much as he could.

But, with a new spring added to his step, Harry continued forwards, grinning once he caught sight of the tree, and bounded forwards, an excitable aura about him… which quickly turned sour once he realized that there was yet another owl there – snowy white – and it was in his favorite spot.

He walked up to the base of the tree and gave a stern glare up at the bird. "That's my spot," Harry told the bird simply, "and you're hanging out in it. Even though it's my favorite spot. I _always_ sit there. You can't steal it." Harry was quite adamant that his bird could understand him (Harry had heard somewhere that animals had some innate feeling or whatever of what a human was saying) and the idea didn't seem as farfetched as some stories that he'd read before.

The story that he, now, wanted to get started on had a character who could turn into a Dragon and understand a bazillion languages. Now, even Harry had to admit that _that_ is farfetched.

The bird wasn't moved by Harry's speech. No matter how powerful it was (to the boy at least).

With a huff, Harry made sure that his book was still secure in his pocket before moving to grasp the branch, helpfully in reach, and heft himself up, slowly but surely (_like in Aesop's fables_ Harry mused brightly) up to his branch.

The owl didn't move.

"Well," Harry sulked, "if you're going to stay here with me, then you'll need a name."

The owl hooted and held out a leg.

Harry stared at the piece of parchment tied to the animal's leg in bemusement. "A messenger owl," he questioned, intrigued, "_really_, did a wizard send you?"

The owl hooted once again and twitched its leg. Harry took the letter with no small amount of bewilderment. "It's for me?" he asked, looking at the address. _Cupboard Under the Stairs_ indeed.

The owl let out another small noise, not quite a hoot, but, well, Harry wasn't sure how to describe it. And the thing came up close to him – Harry staring at it wide eyed in the mean time – and butted its head against his thigh softly.

Harry blinked at it before turning back to the letter, slowly opening the heavy parchment with delicate care – he'd never gotten a letter before, much less by _Owl Post_.

He paused, blinked a couple of times, looked up at the owl, and looked back down at the letter. It took a few minutes for his mind to come up with some type of explanation before a "_wicked_" escaped his mouth.

_Wizardry_.

One simple word suddenly made Harry's whole day.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Bookworm. I've already got chapter 2 out. I had already finished half of it yesterday, so I decided to finish it up today and get it out before I had to leave. Thankfully, winter break is coming up (can't wait) and I'll have more time on my hands. I love having time on my hands. Wasting it is the best.**

**But, read, review, enjoy, go have a nice, tall, glass of Hot Chocolate... damn... I want Hot Chocolate now...**

**Ah, whatever, I'll get one next week. Have fun!**

**And, I don't own any of these various characters. Even though I wish I did, it's just impossible.**

* * *

The light flickered above him once again as Harry immersed himself in_ Tea with the Black Dragon_. The man could turn into a dragon. It was just that cool.

He silently wondered what type of animal that he'd like to turn into, his one hand holding the corner of his page to mark it while he bit his lip, staring at the army men lining his shelf just above his bed. Each army man was strategically placed in a way so that they could easily hide should they ever come to life.

Harry hadn't given up on that idea yet.

A dog, he finally decided, pulling himself from his musings. Definitely a dog. Everyone loved dogs. It was simple as that. _And _(apparently) they had really good hearing and a good sense of smell. With those type of abilities, Harry could outshine Sherlock Holmes easily.

Harry snickered at the mere thought. 'Cause, really, who could beat Sherlock Holmes at problem solving and mysteries?

Although, somehow managing to get his mind back on track, Harry paused – did wizardry mean that Harry could _actually _turn into a dog? He certainly hoped so.

Speaking – err… - _thinking_ of that… he still needed to "owl" them… he supposed that it meant that he had to give an acceptance back to that owl that he originally took the letter from (the owl had been stalking him for the past three days), but he'd been too lazy to actually pick up a pen and piece of paper and write down an acceptance letter.

That and he still hadn't told his Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon about the letter.

Still daydreaming about turning into a dog (who just so happened to have Sherlock Holmes' hat and pipe and was sniffing around Private Drive in search of criminals), Harry almost missed the sound of his cupboard door opening.

But not quite. He gave quite a start, surprised at the loud, squeaking sound, and Harry hurriedly shoved the book underneath his pillow and sat up on his cot, wide eyed and alert.

Of course, he was much _more_ surprised at who was visiting him at his cupboard. "Uncle Vernon?" he'd managed to spew out, staring at the man, bewildered, "what are you doing here?" Harry settled on asking, defusing the question of 'how did you fit your head in here?' – which wasn't all that easy in the long run.

He still had to bite that question back as he stared up at his Uncle, his part done.

"You're moving up to your cousin's toy room," the man said bluntly. Harry blinked. "Now move your stuff and get going!"

The man moved to get out (it must have been excruciating to attempt to even fit in the cupboard) before Harry piped in with the all prevalent, "Why?"

The man shoved his face once more in the cupboard, getting scarily close to Harry's face, forcing the boy to lean backwards, watching the man's beady looking eyes wearily. "Because I said so," the man finally snarled, "And don't ask questions!"

Without another word, his Uncle Vernon slammed the cupboard door shut, although, this time, it didn't follow with the tell-tale clicking sound of a lock slamming into place.

Harry blinked slowly, staring dumbly at the closed door, before mechanically moving all of his things into his pillow case. It was quite easy to shove all of his army men (he'd took them from Dudley when he wasn't looking), the several pairs of clothes that he had, and his one library book into the pillow case without the pillow inside of it.

He shoved the pillow underneath his other arm before moving up the stairs.

The boy dimly noted that he could hear Dudley crying that _"I _need_ that room" "make him get _out_" "it's _my_ room!"_

Harry looked up, staring at the door to his new room. It was large, intimidating – he almost wished for the safety of his cupboard once again. At least there he knew what to expect. At least there, it was his safe haven, where Dudley would never bother to look for him.

He could practically feel the agoraphobia kick in.

He pretty much _longed_ for a place that he hated, for a place that he'd _loathed_ for years.

What was wrong with him?

Harry took a deep breath, letting it all out through his nose, before grasping the door handle tightly. Taking another deep breath, he closed his eyes, letting the air out, blocking out Dudley's outraged cry's and shoved the door open.

He blinked his eyes open.

The room was large.

Maybe not exactly _large_ in that respect, it was the smallest room in the house after all, but it was definitely larger than his cupboard. Why wasn't he back in his cupboard, daydreaming about dogs and dragons? Didn't he just wish to be allowed in this room just the other day? What was wrong with him?

He stepped into the room, shutting the door (effectively muffling Dudley's temper tantrum), and looked around the room.

It was surprisingly bare if one didn't count the various broken toys and mechanisms that Dudley had collected throughout the years. Although the cheap bed was new.

Walking over to said bed, Harry corrected that previous statement, dumping his possessions onto the old, battered quilt. It was Dudley's old bed, from when he was five. Once he'd gotten too large for it, his Uncle Vernon had shoved this old one into the attic.

Harry supposed that they'd only just brought it down for him. At least he was still small enough that he'd fit on it.

Or, at least, he wouldn't break it like Dudley nearly had.

He sat on the bed, listening to it creak underneath of him, listening to Dudley scream at his father for his room back, listening to a passing car on the street below him.

Why was he here?

What was the _catch_?

There was always a catch.

He idly glanced out the window. The owl was there again. Snowy White. Just sitting there, in the tree, not a care in the world… should he send a letter now? Would they still want him? Or was it all just some cruel, sick joke? Just like the room.

Harry wouldn't be able to keep this room, he knew that much, his Aunt and Uncle never kept their promises and backed out of one too many things they'd decided on.

He'd be out of the room come nightfall – in a week at the most.

He stood up. He needed something to do with his hands.

The bookcase caught his eye. It was gathering dust, which was completely like Dudley, and the books were old. Not the old like the cool, awesome, crumbly, yellowing pages old, but the old where they were never used, old children's rhymes and stories and fables that Dudley never had much of an appreciation of.

Then again, Harry ran a hand down the spine of _Aesop's Fables_, Harry had never been allowed to live that kind of life.

Anything fantasy was immediately condemned by his Aunt and Uncle.

They wouldn't let Harry anywhere near the make-believe.

He'd remember that once, when he was eight, he was chosen to for the part of Merlin in a play. _Arthurs Round Table_ – it was the entire grade, everyone had to put it on together.

His Aunt and Uncle had thrown a hissy fit once they'd arrived home.

They had forced him to stay home the night of the play, saying that he wasn't allowed to be around all that freaky _nonsense_. They had then proceeded to go and watch Dudley perform while Harry was stuck with Mrs. Figg for the rest of the night.

He'd never hated Cabbage Soup more than he had at that precise moment in time.

It didn't help matters of when he went back to school the next day, he was given a stern talking to for missing the play and that they had to act around him. His teacher went on to talk about how he has to warn her in advance so that they wouldn't be so woefully unprepared.

Harry had to sit there and take the lecture, nodding solemnly to each thing that the woman said.

He had been mortified at the time, and he'd felt as though he'd let everyone down.

That teacher hadn't let him forget it either.

Damn. He really hated that teacher. Thankfully she was fired the next year. Stupid busy-body…

Skimming the books slowly, eyes unusually glassy, he blinked. His emerald eyes slowly cleared as he took in the title; _A Very Hungry Caterpillar_ by Eric Carle. He blinked again, and snorted.

The first time he'd read the book (he'd been seven at the time… he thinks), Harry had to listen in during Dudley's story time. They had it in the living room that night, since Dudley wasn't feeling well and his Aunt Petunia wanted to keep him close by.

It was the very next day that Harry had, somehow, managed to smuggle a worm into Dudley's sandwich for lunch. Dudley had screamed, horrified, and Harry finally learned the difference between a worm and a caterpillar when his Aunt Petunia started screaming about worms finding their way into the house.

Uncle Vernon ended up calling an exterminator that afternoon.

Harry ended up spending the rest of the afternoon at Mrs. Figgs while his Aunt, Uncle, and cousin went out to eat, and visited Aunt Marge for the night.

He had to say, he didn't mind spending the night at Mrs. Figgs, he surely didn't miss out on anything. At all. If anything, they did him a favor.

He hated Aunt Marge.

A loud banging echoed throughout the house. Harry flinched. It seemed as though Dudley flipped over the table again… in the Dining Room from the sounds of it… this wouldn't end up well…

"_Boy_!"

Then again, Harry wondered, it rarely did.

He set the book back onto the shelf, gave it an indescribable look and turned away.

Might as well go see what Uncle Vernon wanted.


End file.
